


Araneidae

by midnightflame



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Explicit Language, M/M, Mild Blood, Power Play, Shibari, Teasing, Topping from the Bottom, White-haired Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 15:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: Keith ties up Kuro and gives him a ride worth dying for.“Did you know that some spiders consume their mates? Sexual cannibalism. . .” he whispers, smirking against Kuro’s ear.  “. . .that’s what they call it.”“Are you planning to eat me?”“No, but I will devour a bit of your life. . .”





	Araneidae

**Author's Note:**

> So, today is [Synne's birthday](https://twitter.com/p1179875) and I had to write her a birthday fic with some of her favorite things. One of them being this idea of an alternate universe with white-haired Keith and Shiro being dominated by his Kuro personality ([inspired by this picture](https://twitter.com/synnesai/status/902974989942407168)), where they are the good guys who aren't always so good but generally help out the world at large similar to their original verse characters. And really this is just an excuse to write them fucking, so please heed those warnings, and otherwise HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SYNNE! <3
> 
> (And as per usual you can come yell at me over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ByMidnightFlame))

The “Love Nest." 

That’s what Kuro called it, the words sliding off his tongue like water droplets conjured from ice by flame. An empty warehouse renovated over the last year to suit their needs. Mostly as a place to eat and recuperate from one mission or another, set in the midst of an abandoned district. Or mostly abandoned. Vagrants haunted the various structures that had been left to stand as reminders of another time, the ghosts of dreams that had fizzled out in the corporate eye. But several of the buildings still maintained some semblance of the jobs they were meant to carry. A brewery that continued to spit out mediocre beer, a storage center for props to be rented out for parties grander than any of the area's miscreants could dare dream of, and a former textile mill that had been repurposed by a group of up-and-coming chefs into a greenhouse. 

The Love Nest had once played home to timber and steel, but now it served as the spacious abode of Altea’s most notorious guns-for-hire. The good guys who aren’t always so good. That’s what Allura, Altea’s governing _goddess_ , liked to call them, though the words were often trailed by an exasperated sigh or a roll of her eyes when Kuro got to grinning. Not that Kuro’s grins were to be mistaken for sheer mirth alone. More often than not they were a goading weapon, one that drove more enemies into his fist and their lives out the mortal door than not. He wielded it well.

Keith just hated how fucking good it looked on him. 

Tonight, however, there’s been no trace of that grin. Keith makes his way up the stairs, fingers trailing along the black iron railing with all the lightness of starlight, his steps as silent as the dead’s dreams. He had discarded his usual red leather jacket hours ago, had pulled off his T-shirt and doused his upper half under a cold stream of shower water just moments before his ascent. His hair had been dried to a degree, though he can feel the cool splash of water over his shoulders every so often, like a thought that lingered and lingered until the mind could no longer hold onto it and down it went. 

Gone.

The last step creaks as he shifts his weight onto it. He smiles in the wake of that sound, this thin untroubled curve of his lips, eyebrow lifted by a vague sense of amusement. All around him the city lights flicker like the souls of old giants newly awakened by the promise of night. But that’s always been the time of day when the world seems larger than life, daring nightmares to pull themselves from the dark, calling dreams out from the ethereal beyond and giving form to the desires that lurked in the shadows of human minds. He had had the windows tinted, but they don't dull the glow of the horizon as a city awakens to the other side of its soul. In fact, it gives just enough light to see by.

Just enough to see _him_ by. 

In the background, Keith can make out the sheets of their bed, a light dusty purple, tangling with the duvet, a stark black in contrast. He doesn’t remember the last time they actually made their bed, but there rarely ever seemed to be a need. What he does remember are the last moments he had spent in it. Kuro grinning over top of him like a man whose blood was colored red by victory, sinking down against him as he closed his hand around Keith’s throat, as hips pumped his cock deep inside of him, as his breath was torn from him with all the force of a riptide. 

“That fresh-fucked flush always stands out against your white hair,” Kuro had laughed afterward. Still grinning even as he panted through the aftermath of orgasm.

Keith had promised retribution. 

Their bedroom is sparsely decorated, and by sparse, it’s the sheer size of the space that makes it feel emptier than it truly is. It has everything they need. The bed. A dresser large enough for two (there’s a sizable walk-in closet over by the bathroom for the rest). On the wall opposite the bed, an unframed mirror rests against the brick wall, which had been salvaged from the original building. Keith had liked the red of it, and Kuro never had any complaints about the color red. In the far corner, an oversized wicker chair resides, its neighbor a smaller wrought-iron table stacked with books. Perfect for viewing the city skyline or the denizens of the city’s deep, the ones forgotten by society but persisting in existence nonetheless. They put on a good enough show some nights, though they all knew better than to approach The Love Nest. Keith imagines that has something to do with their nightly returns, more often than not blood-splattered and grinning as though they had just torn open the gates to Heaven themselves. 

Kuro’s favorite jacket, black leather-and-canvas (complete with removable hood) in that motorcycle style that had been in fashion two years ago, lays crumpled over the bed. In Keith’s spot.

As for the man himself. . .

Keith moves his gaze to the center of the room. He shifts his weight, pulling a deliberate creak from the wooden floorboard, and finds himself smirking as Kuro’s lips start to curl in a familiar smile. It’s got a bite to it. That fearless sort of smile that makes even Victory reconsider itself. 

He takes a step, then another and another, silent as Death’s last breath, and with every step, his gaze drifts higher and higher. It starts at Kuro’s feet, the legs of the chair he’s seated on, and follows the lines of hemp rope, interwoven strands of red and black, coiling around his body. Up to calf, around his thigh, the slight spread of his legs where Kuro’s semi-hard cock announces his half-aroused state. Keith’s eyes linger there for a moment as he pulls to a halt before the chair and its occupant. The smile on Kuro’s lips grows bolder still. With a soft huff, dismissive, Keith continues his survey, tracing the rope-tracks over Kuro’s chest with his fingertips, noting how they bind him to the chair’s back. He never touches skin but keeps his touch to the red-and-black restraints until he can longer follow them. A lattice-work pattern laces its way up Kuro’s forearms, stretching them high above his head. From one of the steel beams above, also restored from the original building, a single black rope hangs down, its end knotted prettily around Kuro’s wrists, and is now held taut by the weight of Kuro’s arms pulling against it.

Keith slips his fingertips beneath Kuro’s chin and tips his head upward. Their eyes don’t meet. They can’t, not with the blindfold - black silk - shutting Kuro up in darkness. But he imagines it, the way those gray eyes would be burning bright with defiance. He reaches down to adjust himself, feeling his cock twitch beneath his sweatpants at the thought. That's the thing about desire - no one ever wants to talk about the double-edged blade it really is. Taking a breath, Keith straddles Kuro and lowers himself with all the slow patience of a stalking leopard.

Beneath him, Kuro shivers.

“Did you know that some spiders consume their mates? Sexual cannibalism. . .” he whispers, smirking against Kuro’s ear. “. . .that’s what they call it.” 

“Are you planning to eat me?”

“No, but I will devour a bit of your life. . .”

Kuro offers up a laugh at that, his voice heavy with want. It’s a sound that sinks right into Keith, warming up the blood in his veins, flooding his groin with the sort of heat that pools and pools until it overflows and drowns all reason. The sort of heat that makes beasts out of men. For the time being, Keith simply lets it trickle throughout his body, a pleasant buzz of anticipation for the things to come. 

“And what’s to stop me from devouring you?” Kuro asks, lips brushing against Keith’s cheek. 

Settling his weight over Kuro’s thighs, Keith lets out a long considering hum. He places both palms flat against Kuro’s chest, tapping his fingers there to the rhythm of distant police sirens. Always a crisis in the city. Always a battle in the bedroom. Sometimes, Keith thinks it’s the most beautiful sound in the world - the way Kuro gasps when pleasure breaches his self-control. After a moment, he turns his fingertips on their nail-edge and begins dragging them across Kuro’s skin. 

“Me,” Keith says, simple and complete. His fingers jump over one of the rope bindings only to continue their trek southward undaunted. 

Kuro barks out a laugh this time, sharp in its loudness. Keith silences him with a mere brush of fingertips over the head of his cock, now fully erect. The sound dies quick, an end worthy of any flaunted ego. It’s replaced by a low rumble in Kuro’s chest, the roll of it reverberating right through Keith. He leans in then, as fingers wrap slowly around the tip, and flicks his tongue against the corner of Kuro’s mouth. Teeth snap together, sharp as a crocodile’s death trap and just as quick, but like so many attempts made, remain empty, hunger unsated. 

“Down, boy,” Keith purrs, giving Kuro’s cock a healthy pump. 

A snarl greets those words, but the smile carving its way over Kuro’s lips is anything but dissatisfied. He bucks against his restraints, nearly throwing Keith’s hand off, and sets the rope holding his arms aloft swinging. Keith leans in again, lips barely brushing against Kuro’s ear, and there he waits until the rope has settled and the smile has cut in deep over Kuro’s face. 

“That’s better.” He clacks his teeth beside Kuro’s ear and resumes stroking his cock, the motions second-stealing in the way prolonged pleasure can make them, drawing them out to the very last breath, until frustration starts to collide with the desire to _do something_. 

Every time Kuro bucks against his restraints, Keith stamps a kiss upon his skin. He starts at the base of his ear, after giving the lobe a dutiful suck, and moves his way lower with each beat of his heart. When Kuro growls out, just as he hits the space of his collarbone, Keith pauses. He flicks his tongue against the central point, right in that small divot of skin between bone, gentle as planting a rose. One easy drop of his tongue, and then, a bite. For what rose doesn’t carry its thorns, and Keith hopes this one blossoms a beautiful red. Above him, Kuro snarls. Not in anger, though Keith can hear the hints of frustration blossoming, but in absolute delight. 

“When I get my hands on you. . .”

Kuro doesn’t finish that statement, but Keith doesn’t let it drop. He drags his teeth over the burgeoning bite mark, burning bright now against his skin, then runs his tongue over it for good measure. “. . .can’t wait for you to have the chance.”

After that, Kuro grows quiet. Perhaps it's the way Keith keeps pumping his cock, pausing only to slick its head with precum. Or maybe it’s the way silence starts to simmer when revenge sits on the edge on one’s thoughts. But Keith can hear the way Kuro’s heart hammers in his chest, can feel the tension coiling in his muscles as each strand of rope is tested and retested, and all the while, he slides himself further off of Kuro’s lap as each kiss takes him lower and lower still.

By the time he’s on his knees, Kuro’s smile has fallen apart. His lips are parted as short little pants leap from his lips and hit the air with a harsh crash. Keith twists his hand as he moves it up along Kuro’s shaft. A shudder runs through Kuro then, but no sound breaks over his tongue. He watches though, as the intent coils up behind gritted teeth, and as a smile moves slick as oil over water across his lips, Keith leans in and takes the head of Kuro’s cock into his mouth. 

A cry, pained in the way pleasure turns things, tears into the room. 

“Fuck. . .fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Keith keeps smiling as he trails his tongue along the underside of the tip, then down, down, down to the base. He grazes the shaft with the point of his canine tooth, a little longer than most humans but he can thank his Galra heritage for that. Kuro never much minded it. As he works his way back up, Kuro’s cursed litany has faded into a deep-seated growl demanding satisfaction. 

Which seems like the perfect stopping point. 

One last time, he takes Kuro’s cock in whole, flattening his tongue and using care to avoid his teeth. No more than a fleeting relief. As he begins to pull back, shaft spit-slicked, Keith sets his hand to it once more and gives short micro-pumps in the wake of his mouth's absence. When he draws back with an all too audible _pop!_ , there’s a grin promising violence sitting over Kuro’s lips. His chest is heaving, making the bite mark at his collarbone spark bright crimson. Keith knows there are words waiting to lash out at him, but all Kuro can do is grin. 

“Don’t you make a sight. . .” Keith says as he gets to his feet. 

There’s no response. Just that grin, drawn tight by that vicious brand of delight known to all who have stared down Death so many times they’ve lost all fear of it. 

Keith knows what is coming, though that too is part of the fun in being fearless. But it is no reason to rush. He glances down at Kuro’s cock, wet and throbbing, thick as most cocks tended to get when they’re on the verge of release and denied it suddenly. With a lick of his lips, Keith hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and drags them clean off his figure. He leaves them pooled around his feet as his gaze once more finds Kuro. He’s seated there, bound as before, with his cock rising between his thighs, his chest still straining against the ropes, and that grin mercilessly hanging onto his mouth. Kuro tips his head upward only once, sniffing at the air, and whatever scent hit him has that grin growing wider still, lips barely parting as a growl bubbles in his throat.

“I bet you do too.”

Kuro’s voice sounds like it had been raked over hot coals. Burning and burning then burned down right to the raw essence of desire. Keith can’t deny the effect it has on him, a lure threaded through skin and him helpless on the line.

No reply leaves Keith’s lips, however. Instead, he merely moves to the dresser and grabs the dagger he had set there hours ago. He flips it over and over in his hands, his eyes tracing the familiar insignia at the hilt, then finally turns back to Kuro. Nothing has changed.

Still grinning. Still growling like a lion defending the best bits of meat for itself.

When he settles himself over Kuro’s lap again, he does it with the same deliberate crawl of movement, lowering himself inch by steady inch. Only this time, he makes sure Kuro can feel the hardness of his own cock as he descends, the tip bouncing against Kuro’s chest, his stomach, rubbing against Kuro’s erection as he finally seats himself over his thighs once more. Keith leans forward, grinding their cocks against one another, and wraps his arms around Kuro’s shoulders. His lips find the crook of Kuro's neck. The blade slides along his spine. 

Kuro’s body goes rigid. 

“You know I love you, right?” Keith murmurs against skin. His gaze is fixed on the far window, drawn by the lights twinkling like land-locked stars on the city's horizon. And he wouldn't put it past anyone to do that - to drag the stars from the sky and stud the earth with them. Human greed knew no limits.

Just as human hungers can drive a man mad. 

“You’re the only one for me, baby,” Kuro replies, his voice still deliciously strangled by want. 

Keith huffs at that and places a kiss, light as a moth’s wing, against Kuro’s cheek. “Play dirty with me then.”

The grin on Kuro’s lips takes on an amused twist. Wasting no further time, Keith rises up just enough to slip the dagger’s edge under the ropes binding Kuro’s forearms, and cuts them free with one hard swipe upward. The scent of blood hits the air, but the wound isn’t grievous. Still, it trickles down, dark against skin and scars alike, from the base of Kuro’s left thumb down along the underside of his wrist. The ropes have all fallen away, surrendered along with the knife to the floor, though the one hanging from the beam above swings about in circles over their heads, mindlessly set adrift in the air. Keith gives it one last look before he leans into Kuro, back arching and pressing their chests together. 

Anticipating. 

Kuro rolls his wrists, taking no heed of the cut across the heel of his palm, then follows it with one for his shoulders. Nothing more can be done, however. Not with his chest and legs still bound, the ropes locking him to the chair. But that’s never stopped someone like Kuro. No more than Fate can honestly tie down a man who believes in his own destiny. 

Hands settle over Keith’s hips. Lips find his neck. 

And all of it is absolutely infuriating.

It’s the way teeth take to skin, claiming inches when all Keith wants is to be devoured. But Kuro takes his time.

He always takes his fucking time.

Fingers crawl when he wants them to rake. They skate and glide, promise blue-black memories to come. They’ll be the things Keith will look at in the morning, and in a fogged over mirror, he’ll stand there reading every spilled confession sitting beneath them. This is where _I love you_ was planted, and here is where it bloomed. There is where he put _I want you_ , and below that, bursting bright over his hip, is where _I need you_ flourished in Kuro’s skin-script.

All things he will see hours from now, beautiful little remembrances that will make him yearn, yet promise him nothing at the moment. For everything that Keith knows is coming, he also knows that revenge is a bastard of a bitch, and like Cerberus guarding the gates of the Underworld, it only bows to the one it finds most worthy. 

“You’re wet.”

A simple statement. Yet, simplicity can undo so much. 

Keith whimpers a soft acknowledgment against Kuro’s ear, unable to offer anything more as first one then another finger slips inside of him. The slide in is easy enough, as though his desire hadn’t done enough already, filling the air with his sweet scent.

“I want you,” he finally murmurs. 

And that proves to be the words of his undoing. Kuro snarls against his neck, head buried there as he drinks in deeply of his skin, and with a hand planted over each ass cheek, lifts Keith’s hips and maneuvers him into place over his cock. Keith can feel the tip of it rubbing against his entrance. A shiver cuts through his body, electric, and it puts a quiet tremor into his breath. He tries to ease himself down, but Kuro holds him ruthlessly in place. 

“Say it again,” he growls.

Keith feels his heart roll to a stop at that. In the little space he’s been granted to move, he tips his head and sets his mouth against Kuro’s ear. Nothing is said at first, only the slightest parting of his lips, the smallest spill of an exhale. Then, the slow crawl of a smile. 

“Fill me up, baby,” Keith whispers, voice rich as nectar. A drink offered for a god. “You know you’re the only one who gets me like this.”

The next moment steals the very air from his lungs. When Kuro drags him down onto his cock, it’s an immediate flood of pain-tinged pleasure. His body pliant and willing, but Kuro is still something of an _experience_ to take in. It’s Kuro who guides him through those first few minutes, hands settled against Keith’s ass and moving him along his cock to a rhythm only Kuro seems to hear. Fast and hard, all rave-anthem rager. Relentless until Keith takes back control and clenches himself tightly around Kuro. Hands dig into flesh as a moan tumbles from Kuro’s throat. 

The next few beats follow Keith’s lead, a steady rise-and-fall, with Keith leveraging himself over Kuro’s shoulders. He rocks his hips back, nearly stumbles forward again as pleasure jolts his body and finds himself coming seconds later as Kuro catches on and hits him again in that same gratifying spot. He coats Kuro’s chest with it, dapples the ropes with pearls of white, all in a haphazard pattern. Because Kuro doesn’t let him stop. Even as his orgasm fades, Kuro keeps fucking into him, the rhythm erratic, his pace reckless. Keith cries out as the base of Kuro’s cock enters him, stretching him further.

“There you go. . .” Kuro murmurs. 

Seconds later, Keith hears that rolling rumble of sound working its way through Kuro as he comes. And then, there is nothing. No sound. No light. Just darkness. A blissful, consuming darkness. Keith can feel the slick dripping out of him around the base of Kuro’s cock, knows it’s coating the inside of Kuro’s thighs, staining the ropes with the combined mess of _them_. He’s always liked that thought.

The mess of them. 

Because they aren’t perfect. They’re not heroes or role models. They never have been or ever wanted to be, despite everything this world has tried to tell them. But they’ve made something good of themselves on their own terms. Just like this moment. 

Keith knows this by the grin stealing over Kuro’s lips. It still has that fearless edge to it. Not because of Death staring him down. Nor because of any dire straits threatening soul, heart or sanity. But fearless in the way that love makes some men. There’s something satisfied nestled within that grin, brewing with warmth and an affection few would understand but Keith knows better than himself some days. 

He reaches up to pull the blindfold from Kuro’s head, drops the silk to the floor, and cups Kuro’s cheeks. 

“When I cut you loose. . .” Keith begins.

Kuro’s grin starts to slide into a smirk. One small, potent smirk. Their eyes lock, and Kuro drags his fingers down Keith’s back, making him arch like a cat attuned to pleasure. 

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, the whole goddamned neighborhood is going to know what I did to you tonight.”


End file.
